Intimate Association
by dumpling47
Summary: One-shot, prompt fill. In which Sherlock admits to a fear and a doubt. Johnlock.


_**Shoutout to **_**johnsarmylady**_** for the prompt!**_

* * *

_"Sex doesn't alarm me."_

_"How would _you_ know?"_

Sometimes, it feels like everybody's making cracks about my sex life (or, rather, lack of one). As if having my very own brother slam me in front of royalty wasn't enough, Irene Adler had to go and relate to me that Moriarty had nicknamed me "the virgin".

What is everyone's problem, anyway? Can't they mind their own damn business? Meddlers, that's what they are. They can't accept the fact that I consider myself married to my work, and have no time for such a trivial thing as lovemaking.

And yet, the knowledge that I've never done something so ... _human_ - it bothers me. I like to consider myself detached, though sometimes I truly do wish to know what it is like, to be with a woman. Or even, really, to be with another man. Any encounter would do, if only to prove to myself (and perhaps the world) that I'm not what they think I am.

As I consider all this, only one name jumps out at me: John. John is the only one who understands. He doesn't pester me incessantly, or taunt me as the others do. Sometimes, it occurs to me that if there was anyone I would like to experience an intimate association with, it would be him.

But he would never have me.

I'm not used to feeling so insecure, especially about matters like this. The more I think about it, the more I'm sure: John is the one. I don't need him to prove myself to everyone else (what do I care about what _ordinary people_ think, after all!?), but rather to be with someone I love, because finally, I know exactly what I want, and what would be best for me.

And yet ... there's still that nagging doubt. I still care what those damned ordinary people think, though I hate myself for it. So much so, in fact, that I've rather worked myself up about it.

So much, in fact, that I've just let out a rather inhuman shout, for God's sake.

I hear John creaking his way up the stairs (damn it!). A moment later, he opens the door.

"Something wrong?" he asks, his brow creased with worry.

"No, nothing."

"You were just shouting -"

"Yes, John, obviously."

Why am I so rude to him? He's my best friend - my _only_ friend - but that doesn't stop my brother's - or anyone else's - words from penetrating.

John sighs. "Sherlock, you've been pacing around this room all day. I wouldn't be surprised if you've worked a dent into the floor."

I laugh, if bitterly. "Nor would I."

John sits down on the bed. "Sherlock, I just wish you'd talk to me about these things. Let me in on what you're thinking. I might not have your massive intellect, but I'd venture to say that I could keep up pretty well -"

"John?" I interrupt, before he drives me insane.

"Yes?"

"Why does everyone care so much about my sex life?" I suppose that was rather blunt, but what can you do?

John doesn't look surprised, though. "I guess most everybody considers you something of an asexual, to be honest," he says, shrugging. "Those - they - aren't common. Everyone's just fascinated, that's all."

My mouth hangs open. "An _asexual_!?"

John's eyebrows raise. "Well, I don't know if _I_ believe it, but you've never shown interest - I mean -"

Before I know what's happening, I'm, wrapping my arms around him, holding him close. "Is this - is this okay?" I ask, suddenly unsure. I'm not used to feeling this much doubt.

"Uh, yeah, sure? But - Sherlock, what's this all about?"

I swallow. "This is - me showing you that I care," I say stupidly. Or perhaps not-so-stupidly, I really don't know. "And that I know we both love each other - as friends, I mean - but I would never get with you to prove the others wrong, or anything -"

Jesus Christ, what am I _saying_? I pull back, feeling my cheeks burn.

Before I know what's happening, John's kissing me, on the mouth, hard, and I'm reciprocating. He comes up for air (I finally understand that saying) after a moment, breaking out into a huge grin.

"I know you wouldn't, Sherlock," he says. "But if it's all the same to you, I'd like to get with you just as well."

I laugh, hardly able to believe this is happening. John and I have proven to each other (and no one else) how mutual our feelings are, and we're here for each other, as lovers. Mycroft, Moriarty, and that blasted Adler woman can piss off, for all I care. It's liberating, I suppose, to have quenched this sole fear of mine: the fear that I've been judged by everyone else, that I've been somehow vastly irregular. And yet, now that I'm here, in John's arms, none of that even matters.

I'm home, and it need not be anyone else's business but our own.


End file.
